


Caligo

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Modification - Character's Wings are Clipped, Extra Treat, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Possessive Behavior, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wingfic, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: The tower has no door.Jon changes; Martin makes sure he stays.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 112
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Caligo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



The tower has no door.

Martin knows that circling it yet again won’t change that fact, won’t change the sickening realization that they walked all this way, saw so much terror…and for what? To fail now? Here, so close to finding Elias, so close to doing what he should’ve done in this very tower a lifetime ago. He slams his fist into the smooth white stone, and curses at the pain. He hopes Elias hears it. Or maybe he hopes he doesn’t. The sick bastard is probably laughing at them.

“Martin?”

He tenses at the hand on his shoulder, but of course it’s only Jon. It’s always only Jon now, and usually that’s not a bitter thing. So many selfish moments through their trek, he’d been glad it was only them; no one could come between them, could take Jon’s attention away from him. But now those same eyes seem to burn into the back of his neck. Bitter accusations prickle on his tongue, and he wishes there was someone else here to speak them.

But no, no. That’s not fair, is it? There’s no reason to think Jon is lying, that this is a blind spot. That he can’t see inside the tower, that this uncanny pocket of peace is a blur of impressions. Like looking through stained glass, he said, half-frustration and half a worrying fascination.

His hand tightens on Martin’s shoulder, and Martin sucks in a breath, turning to give him a shaky smile. One Jon returns sadly, reaching out to cup his cheek, thumb resting at the corner of his mouth, stroking along his jaw.

“We’ll find another way.”

Is this what Jon always wanted? An easy way out? Before he can silence the doubt, Martin finds his head turning, pulling away from Jon to stare at the smooth stone as if simply by looking, a door will finally appear. But of course it didn’t. And if there’s something Jon can see that Martin can’t, he’d say so.

“Maybe some C4?” he says, turning back to Jon with a half-smile. His hand finds Jon’s hip, but he doesn’t pull him closer. Jon isn’t a good liar; Martin just needs to see his face.

Jon laughs softly, and even after all this time—if it is much time, days flowing into hours into years into minutes—it still makes Martin’s heart stutter. To know he brought Jon that joy, summoned that sound from his lips.

“If we do, please let me handle it. Given your previous issues with the proper handling of explosives…”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Look, I didn’t set anything off, did I? Honestly, I don’t think just touching was that dangerous. You were worried, weren’t you?” He squeezes Jon’s hip, and Jon sighs.

“Yes, Martin. I was worried. And I’m still worried, so on the chance we find explosives, please let me deal with them.”

He leans, placing a kiss on Martin’s forehead. And Martin allows himself to just be. To pretend that this really is the world, the buzzing of insects and the distant call of an owl. Strange, to hear it during the day, but then he supposes day really isn’t a thing anymore, is it? And an owl is exactly the sort of strange Martin needs right now.

But it can’t last. Jon pulls away, and Martin follows up his gaze up the length of the tower. The stone is pure white, but there is something dark high up. Something that catches Jon’s eye, catches Martin’s heart as they both step back.

“A window,” Jon says, with a longing that catches in his throat. “But too high, and maybe—maybe for the best, really.”

“Why would it be for the best?” Martin looks from Jon to the dark window, and already knows he won’t like the answer. But what can he do, but ask?

“I—” Jon does look away now, staring down at the verdant grass, digging his foot into it. The ground yields, wet from a rain that may or may not have fallen.

Martin steps closer, puts a finger under his chin, to tip Jon’s gaze back to him. Where it belongs, or at least a better place than where it’s wandered.

“What is it, Jon? Tell me.” Jon remains silent, and Martin brings him closer. Hand slipping up his back to press Jon against his chest, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of Martin’s neck. “Please.”

It’s that last that makes Jon relent, sighing into Martin’s skin and shifting even closer to him. As if that will be enough to hold him back from whatever terrible truth Martin already knows waits behind his lips.

“If I went into the tower, I’m not sure…” His hand is at Martin’s waist, gripping a fistful of jumper. “I’m not sure I could come back. I’m not sure I’d want to.”

The owl hoots again, and the air turns chill. Dream logic, changing the world to match the surge of fear. Or perhaps not. After all, the world doesn’t heed Martin. And he knows what Jon feels isn’t fear. So he grips him tighter, and lets his gaze wander to the cottage nestled behind a magnolia with vibrant pink blossoms.

“Good thing you can’t enter then, isn’t it? We’ll find another way.”

Jon doesn’t answer, and this time, Martin doesn’t push. They can stay at the cottage for a bit, while they decide what to do. Maybe this one will be real. Or at least real enough.

* * *

Two days or a week or a few hours later finds them settled at a worn table, looking out on the garden. The magnolia is even more beautiful up close, and Jon’s hand rests next to Martin’s on the table, just close enough to touch. In the cottage they’d found tea, which Martin immediately set about making. After checking it really was tea, of course.

They talk about nothing, and night or something resembling it falls. Whatever this place is, it’s real enough for exhaustion, and there is nothing Martin wants more right now than to rest. To leave for a little bit the terrible uncertainty of the new day.

So they fall into bed, curled together. Jon falls asleep first, and Martin can’t help but take the chance to watch him, tracing the fine lines that don’t smooth out even in sleep. It’s the most peace they’ve had in a long time.

But when Martin turns over, he can still feel the Eye’s gaze on the back of his neck.

* * *

It says something about Martin that even for a few days, he was willing to live the lie of contentment. Only a chance to rest, he told himself. Charging off with no plan was more Jon’s way, and while certainly they shouldn’t stay and do nothing forever, it wouldn’t do them any good to wander without direction. Perhaps tomorrow, he’d ask Jon where Basira was. In the evening, he’d suggest they try and find Melanie and Georgie.

Waiting is always dangerous. Martin should’ve known that.

A morning finds them lazy in bed, still muddled from sleep as Martin runs a hand over Jon’s back. Rubbing at the base of his spine, then slipping under the soft, ratty T-shirt he’s sure once belonged to him. Jon mutters sleepily at him, grumbling that his hands are cold. But he presses into the touch, and so Martin moves higher, towards Jon’s shoulder blades.

And then he is stopped.

At first he can’t quite comprehend what he’s touching. Sharp protrusions, covered in a downy fluff. Jon’s shoulders are quite bony, but no, the shape is wrong. His fingers slide along the length, and Jon shivers but doesn’t protest. Clearly not seeing anything wrong, as Martin finally realizes what he must be touching.

It doesn’t feel impossible. It feels inevitable.

He scrambles to his feet. Jon blinks up at him in confusion, slowly standing himself when Martin fails to speak.

“Take your shirt off,” Martin says. It’s too abrupt, but he can’t find anything else to say. Not with the panic worming its way into his throat.

“What? You’re not usually so direct.” Jon laughs, a sound that trails off when Martin fails to show any amusement of his own. “Martin, what is it?”

Martin lets out a laugh now, but his is one of disbelief. “You don’t know, do you? How can you not know?”

“I told you, I don’t see well here. All I get are flashes—glimpses—nothing like the world out there.” His shoulders hunch, but Martin believes him, even as he thinks only Jon could be so oblivious. It’s half-fond in his head, and he knows that’s wrong, that he shouldn’t find it endearing. But it’s enough to make him move to Jon, to take the shirt in his hands.

“May I?”

He’s not sure what he’ll do if Jon says no. But he doesn’t have to find out. Because Jon only sighs, and tries to smile. Still clinging to denial, even now. Martin supposes when you start getting used to knowing everything, denial does start to seem like a luxury. But it’s one they can’t afford.

“Be my guest.”

Before he can lose his nerve, Martin pulls the shirt over Jon’s head, tossing it onto the bed. Jon stands there, shivering slightly but not otherwise moving away. And not turning to reveal his back.

Martin grips his shoulder, and when he tugs, Jon doesn’t resist. Letting Martin rotate him to finally get a good look at what he felt on Jon’s back.

He half-expects something horrific, a monstrous, twisted mass of feather and bone. But they’re not like that at all. They’re perfect, small and unfledged and tucked neatly between his shoulder blades. The down is thick, and incredibly soft as Martin reaches out again to stroke the creamy feathers, shot through with darker bands.

“Martin,” Jon says, oddly breathless. “What is it? I—I can feel it, you’re touching something, and it’s me, but—” He trails off, making an odd sound as Martin digs his fingers in a little harder. He expects it wouldn’t be good for a real bird, but he doubts Jon operates by those rules. And if he does, well, messing up the feathers might be for the best.

“They’re wings. You have wings.” A strange rage wells inside him, a desire to do harm. Not to Jon, never to Jon, but to the beautiful, terrible things emerging from his back. Changing what he is, forcing him to become something so beyond Martin he can barely comprehend it. He only realizes he’s gripping too tightly when Jon makes a small pained noise.

God, he doesn’t want to hurt Jon. He doesn’t want any of this. But no one has ever really cared what he wanted.

“They’re so you can reach the tower,” Martin says. No point in making it a question, not when the certainty sits cold and heavy in his chest.

“I don’t know what they are,” Jon says, turned around and snatching his shirt off the bed, pulling it hurriedly over his head and crossing his arms over his chest. Martin imagines if he could see Jon’s back, the motion would only make the outline clearer. “This close to the tower…it’s harder to see. And there’s not much we can do about it, is there?”

“I suppose it’s better than eyeballs,” Martin says, trying to quell the dread churning in his stomach. It won’t be silenced, but for Jon, maybe he can pretend. At least for a little bit.

Jon shudders theatrically, and offers Martin a small smile. “Absolutely better than eyeballs. It’s probably bad, because when isn’t it? But I don’t know what else there is to do, except wait and see. For now…” His eyes drift to the window. Outside it, Martin knows he can see the tower. He can always see the tower. “Why don’t I make breakfast?”

“Breakfast sounds wonderful,” Martin says. His smile is weak, but Jon accepts it. Enough to turn his back, revealing an outline of wings Martin swears are already larger.

* * *

With night and day, it should be easier to track time here. But somehow it seems even more amorphous. The ability to count the days makes it feel like a sudden, unwelcome necessity. Something Martin should know, something that frustrates him when he realizes he hasn’t been marking the passage of time.

But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Only that some time has passed, maybe a week, maybe more, when Jon’s wings grow too large for his shirt.

It’s such a simple thing, an accident. Jon fiddling with a setting on the microwave—Martin no longer questions how it works, not when there are so many other things to question—while Martin watches from the table. He sets down his tea, but keeps his hand firmly on the cup. The kitchen is cramped, and based on past experience, there’s always a chance Jon will end up distracted enough to walk into the rickety table.

Jon tenses, and his wings tense with him as he presses a series of buttons. The shirt strains dangerously, and it only takes one pleased noise from Jon, one sudden ripple of still unfamiliar muscle as he turns to Martin, for the cloth to finally tear.

His shirt slumps across his torso, held only by the sleeves as Jon stares at Martin with wide-eyes. Over his shoulders, Martin can see his wings fluttering, still downy but already so much larger than before. How long until Jon fledges? And what will happen then?

“Martin,” Jon says, clutching at the collar of his shirt. Trying to hold it up, to preserve not modesty—they’re long past that—but deniability. Clinging to the tattered remains of a hope that this isn’t happening, that this isn’t changing him even more, in ways he even he hadn’t foreseen.

But they’ll deal with it. Martin holds tight to that thought as he stands, to help Jon untangle himself from his shirt, and smooth his quite literally ruffled feathers.

“You know, I never really saw myself doing animal rescue, but I suppose it’s good to develop a new skill,” Martin says.

Jon turns around to give him an irritated glare. There are bits of fluff caught in his hair, perfectly positioned to give him the suggestion of an owl’s ear tufts. And Martin can’t help it; he laughs.

“Oh yes, very funny. You know how annoying it is, to only be able to sleep on your stomach?” Jon yanks the remains of the shirt over his head, and drops it on the floor. Which Martin might normally scold him for, but in this case he supposes he can let it slide.

“I know how annoying it is to wake up with feathers in my mouth,” Martin says, plucking the bits of down out of Jon’s hair and pointedly putting them in the bin.

Jon crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders hunching as his wings fluff up further, looking absurdly adorable as he continues to grumble.

“What am I supposed to do about shirts now? I really don’t want to go parading around like, well, like this.” He uncrosses his arm briefly to gesture at his chest, before returning to his previous position, toeing at the crumpled scraps of shirt.

“Maybe a poncho?” Martin looks him up and down. “Though I don’t think it’s so bad.” He steps closer, pulling Jon against his chest and stroking at the juncture of his wings and back. “No one here to see you but me anyway.”

“I suppose it’s not that cold,” Jon mumbles into his neck.

They stay like that, as minutes pass. It’s not exactly the most comfortable, just standing in the kitchen, bits of feather sometimes tickling Martin’s nose. But Jon needs time, and Jon needs him. He understands that. And he can do this.

“How do you feel?” Martin says, hand stilling on the small of Jon’s back.

“Uncomfortable. They ache, which I suppose makes sense. It’s like a rather unnatural growth spurt.” His wings flutter, and he slowly draws back, lifting a hand to cup Martin’s cheek. “I’ll manage.”

He smiles, then. Small and tentative and Martin can’t help but kiss him. Taking in the soft warmth of Jon’s lips against his, and the way his hand trembles against Martin’s cheek as he kisses back.

They’ll both manage. Martin will make sure of it.

* * *

Martin watches Jon pace across the lawn, late afternoon sun painting his skin and feathers a burnt orange. Marked with scars and scrawny, and flailing about as he tries to get a handle on his new appendages, he might not be most people’s idea of beautiful.

But Martin isn’t most people.

Maybe not everyone would agree, and maybe it’s the rose-tinted glasses that affect his perception. The warmth he feels, the laughter he can’t help as Jon tries to run into flight, and instead trips over his own feet.

He catches himself, shooting a look at Martin, wings drooping slightly when he realizes Martin noticed. But Martin gives him an encouraging wave, and he seems to perk up, squaring his shoulders and beginning to run.

The sunlight reflects on tawny feathers, banded black. As Jon extends his wings again and gives an experiment flap, Martin spots other markings, breaking up the regular pattern of the feathers. But Jon’s moving too fast for him to get a good look. Martin’s breath catches as Jon nears him, waiting for him to stop. But he doesn’t.

He flies.

Only a few seconds, and from the choked yelp Jon makes, he’s nearly as surprised as Martin is. Backlit by the sun, he looks like an angel. Or no, perhaps that’s not quite right. If Jon were any winged creature, he would be Icarus. Flying too high, until he’s burned. Or until they all burn with him.

That comparison proves all too correct, as Jon drops suddenly back towards the ground, far too close to the small pond. His feet touch down, and he flaps his wings, trying to keep himself from plunging into the water. But he’s not strong enough yet, and before Martin can think better of it, he’s running towards Jon, grabbing him under his arms while Jon continues to flap wildly, the force enough to send them into the ground. Which isn’t as soft as all that grass makes it look.

“Ow,” Martin says.

Jon is shaking, face in Martin’s neck, and for a panicked moment, Martin thinks he might be hurt. A wing broken, and oh God, how do you set the wing of a bird man, or whatever Jon is? But then Jon shifts, lifting his head and taking Martin’s face between his hands, and Martin sees the grin plastered across his face. And despite everything, finds himself returning it.

“I’m not sure I’m very good at this whole flying thing.”

Jon’s fingers work their way into Martin’s hair. He’s folded his wings, but they’re still huge. Enough to make Jon heavier than he was before. But right now, Martin welcomes the weight, freeing an arm to sling around his torso, nestling in the warm down at the juncture of his wings.

“At least you didn’t fall into the pond. Getting the muck out of feathers would’ve been a nightmare.” He strokes the feathers lightly, and Jon shivers, and places a kiss on Martin’s forehead.

“I’m lucky I had you here to save me.”

The words are teasing, shot through with a fondness that Martin has gotten used to. There’s no reason for him to suddenly feel cold. No reason for his eyes to wander to the stark white line of the tower.

Jon notes his silence, if not the reason, and drags himself back to his feet. Martin’s ruined the moment, he knows it, but he can’t look away. And even Jon can’t miss where he’s looking as he steps closer again, shoulder brushing Martin while his wing extends to cradle Martin’s back.

“Do you really think I’m just going to fly away and leave you?”

“Unless those wings gave you super strength, I don’t think you’re taking me with you.” He tries to make it a joke, but it doesn’t come out right. The bitterness drips from his tongue, coating his lips as he turns to pull Jon into a kiss and hopes he hasn’t noticed.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Jon says, when Martin pulls back. “I don’t want to leave you.”

The latter is true, and it’s enough to make Martin smile sadly at Jon, and stroke a hand along the inside of his wing, picking out a leaf Jon had gotten wedged between his feathers. There’s less and less fluff, mixed in with velvety soft feathers. Ones that might help Jon fly.

“Let me clean you up. I don’t know how you did it, but I think you managed to pick up half a forest in your wings.” He pulls out a small twig, and holds it up for Jon’s inspection, earning the exaggerated huff he was hoping for.

“Fine,” Jon says. He pushes past Martin, bracing himself against the magnolia tree with his back to Martin.

The cleaning is more an excuse to change the subject, but honestly, Jon has made a bit of a mess of himself. He supposes real birds just know how to take care of their feathers, or their parents do at least, passing it down. And real birds also have an easier time reaching them. As surprisingly flexible as Jon is, even he struggles to reach around and carefully preen his back.

And it’s nice, to just touch Jon. To run his hands lightly over the soft feathers, watching the way Jon’s muscles tense, pulling on the ragged edge of a scar visible above one wing. Martin traces that as well. Another mark on Jon, another thing done to him by something— _someone_ —trying to tear him away. But Martin loves him, and Martin wants him. Martin will keep him, no matter what it takes.

In truth, the debris drops from Jon’s wings easily. He wonders if that’s just how birds normally work. After all, he’s never seen a lot of stick and feather encrusted birds hopping around. Or maybe they just remove it when he’s not looking, and Jon really is special.

As he continues to trace Jon’s wings, his fingers catch on a feather, the shaft covered in some sort of sheath that seems to be flaking off. He rubs a thumb over it lightly, only to draw back quickly when a noise—was that a moan?—issues from Jon’s lips.

“Did I hurt you?” Martin says, hand hovering over the feather. His rubbing dislodged some of the sheath, but much of it still dangles there.

“No, no, I—” Jon’s head is bowed, back still to Martin. His fingers dig into the bark. “It itches. Has been itching. Getting rid of it, it feels…nice.”

Martin suspects nice might not be quite the right word, given the way Jon barely bites back what is definitely a moan when Martin begins to rub at it again. But he’s certainly not going to tell Jon no. Not when Jon clearly wants this, actually pushing his wing back into Martin’s touch as Martin turns to another feather.

“Hey, you want me to do this, you need to hold still. I don’t want to hurt you. Or get smacked in the face.” He kisses the back of Jon’s neck, and Jon stills his wing again. Martin can feel him trembling, and God, he wants to hate the wings. Does hate them, with each inch they lift Jon higher. But in his hands, under his touch, he also loves them. How sensitive Jon is.

How much he trusts Martin.

“Don’t—don’t stop. Please.”

Martin realizes he’s gotten distracted, tracing the outline of one feather as Jon leans harder against the tree, resting his forehead against the bark. His breath is coming more quickly now, stuttering as Martin finds another feather in need of his attention, rubbing away the coating as Jon makes noises that almost sound pained. Would sound pained, if Martin didn’t know him so well.

The task would almost be soothing, the warm wind on his face, the chirping of crickets, and the hoot of an owl that surely shouldn’t be awake yet. And it is, in its way, one feather after another, a blur of gold and black and white, shifting and trembling beneath his gaze. But cut through it all is Jon, barely able to contain his shaking, sweat dampening the curling ends of his hair, and his hands gripping ever harder on the tree, shaking some of the pale pink blossoms free.

He’s gorgeous, the petals sliding across his wings, wafted along as he trembles. Martin doesn’t want to stop, whatever brought this about. He shifts uncomfortably, half-hard just from watching Jon, but does nothing to deal with it. Not with Jon so pliant under his hands, the almost hypnotic shift of his feathers—now dappled with flowers—mingling with his gasps and small moans, as feather after feather is tended by Martin’s hand.

Jon whirls around, and Martin yelps as their positions are reversed, and he’s pinned to the tree, trunk digging into his back. Before he can ask what Jon is doing, protest that he isn’t done yet, Jon is on his knees, spreading his wings wide to allow him to kneel. But the wings are only a secondary concern, because Jon’s fumbling with Martin’s trousers, freeing his now hard cock and bringing his lips to a stop just inches from it.

As Martin stares down at him, he realizes he can see a wet spot forming in Jon’s trousers. Martin’s cock twitches, and Jon’s eyes flick up to Martin.

They’re hazy with something Martin can’t name. Perhaps doesn’t want to name, at least not in full, for what lurks beneath simpler emotions. What always lurks beneath with Jon, but right now he just wants to forget that. He just wants Jon for himself.

“Did you really just…” It seems ridiculous to ask, but from the way Jon flushes, he feels fairly confident of the answer even before Jon speaks.

“I—I didn’t realize it would be quite so intense?”

Martin reaches down towards Jon’s fingers to brush his lips, and Jon presses a fond kiss to them. His tongue darts out, swiping over the pads of Martin’s fingers, making him gasp and reach for Jon’s hair with his free hand. Grip tightening as Jon draws Martin’s fingers into his mouth, sucking on them and moaning as his tongue runs along them. Then he pulls back slightly, tugging against Martin’s grip as his eyes drift to Martin’s cock.

“God, yes,” he answers the unspoken question, and Jon takes him eagerly.

Even now, Martin can’t say Jon is exactly good at this. Not that he has a ton of room for comparison, but he feels it’s a fairly common opinion that there shouldn’t be quite so many teeth involved. But for what Jon lacks in skill, he makes up for in sheer enthusiasm, eyes never leaving Martin’s face as he desperately takes him deeper. Too deep, choking suddenly and pulling back to gulp air before filling his mouth again. Martin’s told him more than once he doesn’t need to do that, but Jon always just flushes and brushes it off.

And Martin can’t say he doesn’t love it, the way Jon’s lips stretch around his cock, the little moan when Martin yanks on his hair. How his eyelids flutter when Martin’s grip tightens. Martin’s head tips back, hitting the tree with a thunk, knocking some of the . His gaze drifts to Jon’s spread wings. The markings are so much easier to see like this, and even as his hips stutter, pushing into Jon’s mouth, he finds he can’t look away. They don’t look like the sort of things that belong on a bird’s wings, odd circular blots on the tawny feathers. 

Jon’s hand comes up to wrap around the base of his cock, and his tongue flattens along the length. His wings flutter, and the magnolia blossoms flutter around them. Jon takes Martin deeper again. It’s too much, and Martin is coming, moaning Jon’s name even as his gaze remains on the wings. The warmth suffusing his body, the sweet way Jon continues to suck on his softening cock. None of it is enough to shake the subtle wrongness of the markings. The sense that he should know them.

They blink.

Jon must know something is wrong, with Martin’s hand dragging involuntarily on Jon’s hair even as he tries to scramble away. But he can’t, not pinned here, even as Jon pulls free, stands up to murmur comfort to Martin, voice pitching up to worried questions, and a hand running down his cheek.

“Martin, what is it? Did you see something?”

He laughs, and knows it comes out more than a bit hysterical. But why shouldn’t it be? Jon’s wings just blinked at him, and wings aren’t supposed to blink, and Jon isn’t even supposed to have wings, and if he does, what does that mean for Martin?

It’s only when Jon’s eyes—his real eyes, his human eyes—grow wider Martin realizes he was speaking aloud. He supposes it doesn’t matter, does it? Jon would’ve found out anyway. If not from Martin, then from someone else. From something else.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even think I could, but…”

“The wings are making you stronger.” He laughs softly, and knows it sounds as bitter as it is when he sees Jon wince. “A bird’s eye view, and all the eyes you need to see.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says again, burying his face in the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin’s arms go around him automatically, but he can’t hold as tightly as he wants. Not with the wings in the way. “I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know what to do.”

Behind Jon, Martin can see the tower. And there is a light in the window.

* * *

Martin sits on the bed and stares at the first aid kit. Everything he could possibly need. Jon had managed to cut himself, flying too close to the cottage like a reckless idiot. As sheepish as he’d looked when Martin scolded him, he’d gone back to it immediately. Running across the lawn, stretching his long legs and flinging himself into the gaping sky. The blood doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but what lies beyond his sight.

Bandages, that’s what he came in here for, and he takes them, along with a small scissors. The gash is along his arm, and given his sudden interest in aerial calisthenics, Martin doubts an ordinary plaster will suffice. Outside, he finds Jon damp with sweat and grinning, spreading his wings proudly as Martin scolds him for not sitting still.

“It’s just a cut. I swear, I won’t bleed out.” Even sitting on the bench, Jon can’t seem to stay still. Thrumming with an energy Martin hasn’t seen from him in so long.

“It could get infected,” Martin says. When Jon raises a skeptical eyebrow, Martin adds, “Look, I know this place seems like some sort of eerie paradise, but that’s all the more reason not to trust it.” He pointedly applies antiseptic cream, setting a gauze pad over it, and wrapping Jon’s arm carefully with the bandages.

“I suppose you’re right.” Jon’s bright mood seems to suddenly fall away, his wings drooping, pulling in closer to his back as he shifts on the bench. “I’m sorry, Martin. I feel so good, so alive. Like I’m so close to something that just feels…right.”

“And you know what that means.” Martin doesn’t bother trying to soften his words as he ties the bandage off.

“It’s the Eye. The tower.”

Martin stands, and Jon stands with him, stepping closer to take Martin into his arms. His wings lift and extend, enclosing Martin into the embrace, warm and soft and smelling of nothing but bird dander and sweat.

“Look at me, Martin.”

Martin’s staring at the ground. But he’s never been good at denying Jon, so he does look, and it hurts, what he sees in Jon’s eyes. Because Jon loves him, and Jon means it when he says, “I won’t leave you.”

But meaning it has never been enough. Behind Jon, Martin can still see curtains fluttering in the tower window. He can’t see what’s behind them. He doesn’t want to know.

Jon wants to know. Whatever else he wants, whatever else he thinks and desires, he needs to know what lies behind them in a way Martin can never understand.

But he doesn’t need to understand. He just needs to stop Jon from getting there.

His hand tightens on the scissors.

* * *

Jon sprawls across their bed in a way Martin thinks is rather unbirdlike. Jon would say he isn’t a bird, that it’s a perfectly normal way to sleep for a human. A point Martin might argue, smiling at Jon over his tea as Jon defends his dignity, as if he really cares anymore. Except as a fond point of connection between them, a warmth he offers Martin.

He’s stalling, he knows. Trying to talk himself out of this. Or trying to talk himself into it. Maybe he’s just hoping Jon will wake, will stop him. Make a promise Martin believes. Maybe he hopes Jon will fly away, but no. Just letting things happen, that’s never the answer. Everything won’t be okay.

It makes it easier, the way Jon sleeps. Martin settles next to him on the bed, and barely has to adjust the wing as he lines up the scissors with the first feather. It’s not ideal, too small, created for a different task. But it should be enough. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

Jon doesn’t stir as he cuts, breath held in as he waits for…he’s not even sure. The end of the feather falls onto the duvet, and he leaves it there. What’s the point in trying to hide it? Jon will know anyway. So he cuts another feather, then another. His face is damp, and he scrubs his arm across it. How is it fair, that he’s crying, when he’s the one doing this? What if it destroys Jon? What if it hurts him? Sure, from what Martin half-remembers from his ex who had a budgie, the clipping itself doesn’t actually hurt. Just avoid the blood feathers, and he knows he has.

The scissors glides through another feather, and he’s not sure that’s enough, so he does another still. He knows he doesn’t have to do them all, but he also knows Jon shouldn’t be able to fly. Symbolism, that’s what it is. Dream logic. So he cuts and he cuts and he cuts, until he has to stop because he can barely see, hurrying to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water.

He looks in the mirror, and hates himself a little. For doing this without asking Jon first, for not trusting him, when he’d trusted Martin. But there’s too much at stake. If Jon goes into the tower, they might lose any hope of turning the world back.

And Martin might lose the only person who has ever truly loved him. Who he loves so much it hurts sometimes, a pain that drives him back into the bedroom, back to the scissors, to start on the other wing.

When it’s done, Martin curls up next to Jon, stroking gently over the expanse of feathers. He knows he won’t sleep, but that doesn’t matter. He owes it to Jon to be here. To face whatever comes.

And he doesn’t want to be alone.

* * *

In the morning, Jon doesn’t speak at first. Martin can tell he knows immediately, confusion morphing into panic as his fingers trace the ragged edges of his wings. He looks at Martin, mouth open, but no sound comes out. It’s strange, to see Jon silent. For a few, terrible seconds, Martin wonders if he took that from Jon too. If his voice is somehow tied to his wings.

But then Jon clears his throat, and says soft and raspy, “I love you.”

That only makes it worse, makes Martin’s eyes burn. Makes him break his promise to himself, as he flees into the soft glow of sunrise. But it’s not better, is it? Not better at all, when he can see the bloody tower, always looming over them. Reminding him that this is at best a temporary measure, if it works at all. And even if he keeps cutting, keeps Jon here, what does that do?

The sun paints the lawn with golden streaks, and Martin goes to sit on the stone bench. Eventually, he’ll go back inside. There’s no way out but up. And no way out at all for Martin.

It doesn’t take long for Jon to follow him, feet bare as he walks across the dewy grass. Martin fights the urge to scold him, to tell him he’ll catch cold. Even if it were true, he rather thinks he’s voided any right to criticize what Jon chooses to do with his own health right now.

As he squints into the sun, he notices something clutched in Jon’s hand, glinting as the light hits it. His heart stutters when Jon gets close enough for Martin to make it out. It’s the scissors. What reason would Jon have to bring that? An accusation? An attack? But no. Jon wouldn’t hurt him; Martin’s sure of that.

He sits next to Martin, fanning out his wings so one presses against Martin’s back. The meaning is clear, and Martin hates it, he hates it, and why can’t Jon just yell at him? He turns to Jon, words stopping in his throat when Jon meets his eyes.

“You did the right thing.”

“What? I can’t believe—” His voice cracks, and his skin feels tight. “I cut your feathers, and I didn’t even ask. How is that fair? It’s not—it’s not right.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed. I would’ve come up with some excuse.” His smile is a little bitter, but he only leans closer to Martin when he says, “I told you. I need you.”

Something cold and hard presses into Martin’s hand, and with a jolt he realizes it’s the scissors.

“My hair’s getting a little long,” Jon says, as he slides off the bench and onto the wet grass. It’s awkward with the things, one banging into Martin as Jon scoots over, spreading his wings wide to allow him to lean his back against Martin’s legs.

Martin’s breath catches as his eyes track along the one not obscured by the bench. The eye markings are as clear as before, but they’ve changed. They’ve—there’s no other word for it—closed.

He drags his gaze back to Jon, and adjusts the scissors between his fingers, beginning to cut. It’s not the first time he’s done this, and he thinks he’s even gotten half-way decent at it. But he knows this one will be a mess, with how his hands are shaking, his vision blurring as he tries to at least not stab Jon in the head.

“Does it hurt?” Martin finally asks, as he cuts away another lock.

“No.” Jon’s voice hitches. Martin gently tilts his head, to get better access to a ragged strand brushing his cheek.

“Don’t lie to me.” It’s harsher than he intended, but before he can take it back, Jon’s answering.

“Not—not physically. Not exactly”

Martin runs the hand not holding the scissors over Jon’s throat, feeling him swallow hard.

“What does that mean?”

Jon sighs, and tips his head back to rest against Martin’s knee.

“It means for a moment, I could see everything. And then I couldn’t again.”

Martin cuts another lock of hair.

“It was a dream,” Jon continues. “And in it—God, it was terrible. I know it was terrible. Everything below me, and I took it all in, and it was a patchwork of horror. Every fear cracked open, pressed and distilled, and I drank it all in. And it had never felt more right.”

“And then?” Martin runs his fingers along Jon’s throat, tracing the delicate ridges. Trying to focus on only that, listening to all the awful things Jon is saying. He’s had enough practice, after all.

“I fell. And now it’s like…a thicket, obscuring the sky. I can only catch glimpses, and the harder I try, the more it hurts. Or not hurts, but it feels…wrong.” The last said with an audible frustration, one that makes Martin tense, his fingers stilling.

“Stop trying.” His voice cracks, and his fingers press too hard into Jon’s skin. “Please, Jon. I can’t—”

Jon’s hand closes over his, stroking along the back. “I don’t know what to say, Martin. I don’t know if I can. It’s instinct, it’s—it’s compulsion, in a way. I don’t want to be this.” He pulls Martin’s hand from where it rests on his throat, and kisses the palm. “It feels right to try, and I know it shouldn’t. I don’t know how to make it stop.” He sounds exhausted, voice going hoarse as he lets his cheek rest against Martin’s leg.

This time, Martin doesn’t push. Instead, he continues cutting, hair falling away as easily as feathers. When he finishes, he presses a kiss to Jon’s crown.

His fingers continue to run gently over Jon’s throat, and Jon settles back, eyes drifting shut as his head rests against Martin’s knee. Even after everything, he trusts Martin completely.

He trusts Martin to choose.

The thought sends a sickening lurch through Martin’s gut. His hand stutters, but Jon doesn’t seem to notice. Of course not. He doesn’t want to notice. He wants to be held, and collared, and controlled. He doesn’t want to choose.

So Martin chose for him. And he’ll keep letting Martin do that, until—

* * *

Jon gets up early, the bed dipping as Martin turns over and buries his face in the pillow.

“I’ll make us something to eat,” Jon says, resting a hand briefly on Martin’s hair, before padding out of the room.

Martin can hear Jon banging away in the kitchen, a sharp clang and a soft curse when he drops a pan. He laughs softly, cracking his eyes finally to see a feather lying on the pillow next to him. The sight is enough to drain his brief happiness away, as he traces the ragged edge. There have been more and more lately, tucked between the sheets.

When he finally gets up and walks into the kitchen, he finds Jon contorted himself, arm at an odd angle as he tries to reach his back. He doesn’t notice Martin as he draws closer, not until Martin reaches him, feeling him Jon as he lays a hand on Jon’s wing.

“Let me,” he says, rubbing at the flaking sheath. Drinking in the small noises Jon makes, enjoying it just for a moment.

“Moulting,” Jon says, high and breathless. “I suppose it isn’t the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

They both laugh, and if it’s a bit strained, neither of them comments on it.

“There’s no way to get inside the tower,” Jon tells him later, sitting on the stone bench next to Martin, blossoms drifting down around them. “I’m sorry. But if we want to stop Elias—” His eyes find the curtains fluttering in the window.

Jon still doesn’t know what he wants. But Martin does.

The next day, he sees eyes blinking on Jon’s wings.

The tower has no door. And Martin will cut and cut until there is no other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for Jon's wing markings comes from owl butterflies. The title comes from their genus, Caligo, which also has an obsolete medical definition: dimness or obscurity of sight, caused by a speck on the cornea.


End file.
